"But no matter how clearly I saw what I was doing, I would go on doing it, as though I simply allowed my shame to sit there alongside my need to do it, one separate from the other. I often chose to do the wrong thing and feel bad about it rather than to do the right thing, if the wrong thing was what I wanted."
Finally reading The End of The Story by Lydia Davis. I can only handle reading a few pages of this book every day. I am going to eventually give this copy back to Ruth, who lent it to me, with every other page dogeared, some dogeared top and bottom. (via emilygould)
"Nearly every morning a certain woman in our community comes running out of her house with her face white and her overcoat flapping wildly. She cries out, “Emergency, emergency,” and one of us runs to her and holds her until her fears are calmed. We know she is making it up; nothing has really happened to her. But we understand, because there is hardly one of us who has not been moved at some time to do just what she has done, and every time, it has taken all our strength, and even the strength of our friends and families too, to quiet us."
"It is likely I will die next to a pile of things I was meaning to read."